She unbuttoned her coat and pulled her arms back to take it off. His
eyebrows rose subconsciously as her breasts thrust forward, and his
furtive glance flicked over her shapely body as she put her carefully
folded coat on the seat and sat down beside it.

The shrill shriek of the guard’s whistle startled her and a look of
panic momentarily passed across her face as the train moved and slowly
pulled away from the station on its eastward journey. But soon she
became engrossed in the sight of the town and then the Dorset
countryside flashing past the windows. Although still preoccupied, she
gradually relaxed and her gaze drifted back to what was inside the
carriage, namely Bill Guy. They glanced at one another, casually, coyly,
sizing each other up.

‘Off for a holiday?’ he asked with a smile, suddenly catching her off
guard. His accent was far removed from Italy or some other exotic
country in which she had already placed him according to the shiny black
hair brushed straight back from his forehead and his deep-set brown
eyes.

‘Yes ... visiting an aunt in Gosport. Do you know it?’ To Bill, her
voice sounded like a Dorset cornfield sighing softly in a summer breeze.
The thought of a common destination tugged the corners of his mouth into
a smile.

‘I live there. I have a business there,’ he added, rather proudly. His
gaze shifted to her clasped hands, searching for rings. He extended his
hand.

‘My name is Guy, by the way ... Bill Guy.’ He was relieved to see no
rings.

‘Caroline Palmer.’

She spoke quietly, as if she wished to keep it a secret. ‘Friends call
me Carrie.’

‘Staying long in Gosport?’ The hope in his voice left the end of his
question dangling embarrassingly in mid air.

She suddenly seemed nervous about answering questions, and he imagined
that some disaster had recently befallen her. Perhaps life was suddenly
moving too quickly for her. He had to remind himself that they were
complete strangers.

‘I don’t know really. I’ll have to see,’ she said, demurely.

It told him nothing.

‘You don’t have to work, then?’

He knew immediately that he had overstepped the mark; the message
flashing in her eyes was clear – it was a question too many, too
personal.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, hurriedly, ‘That’s none of my business.’

There was an awkward silence. She was obviously not going to tell him
her life story, but she seemed reluctant to put him off altogether.

‘That’s all right.’ She gave a theatrical shrug that had an air of
forced sophistication. Raising her chin, she closed her eyelids slowly
and softly, like a giraffe.

‘I don’t really have to work... and I haven’t made up my mind quite what
I’ll be doing. I just need to rest for a while,’ she added, rather
grandly.

Confused but relieved, Bill turned the conversation.

‘Do you know Portsmouth?’

‘I’ve never been there.’

He smiled. At last he had a topic he could run with; and he did. By the
time he finished his colourful description, Carrie was convinced that
the drab naval city that was Portsmouth was the most exciting place in
England.

At 12:20pm, Inflexible was suddenly shaken
from stem to stern by a shell exploding just behind the bridge.
Somewhere behind the hilltops, out of sight, at least one of the Turkish
howitzer teams now had the ship in their sights, and had found her
range. Three minutes later, there were three more deafening explosions
as more shells struck home. One of them landed on her starboard midships
turret, killing two gunners and wounding four. Above the ship, another
shell burst, killing all of the lookouts and range finders.

Communication to the foretop and bridge was cut off abruptly and fires
broke out in the superstructure and various other parts of the ship. The
Captain had no alternative. He was obliged to withdraw his ship from the
action to fight the fires.

George, Chalky White and the forward turret crew emerged into the chaos
raging on the deck, to lend a hand to fight fires and tend the wounded.
The damaged midships turret was completely out of action. They grabbed a
hose and tackled the flames creeping out from under the damaged turret.
When the fire was out and the smoke had cleared, they climbed inside it
with two other seamen. This would have been Potter’s place of duty, had
he been fit.

Inside, it was pitch black; the only available light came through the
open doorway. In the hazy gloom in the turret they clambered over the
twisted pipework to find the last two members of the crew sprawled
grotesquely against the far side of the turret. Their clothing was
smouldering and partly torn away by the blast. The mingled stench of
cordite and burning flesh made Chalky retch. They reluctantly felt the
charred and melted flesh, searching for pulses, but found none.

As they manhandled the smouldering corpses through the doorway and laid
them on the deck, they both kept their gazes anywhere but on the bodies.
Chalky glanced nervously at George. Neither of them could hide the utter
revulsion they felt. They gasped and filled their lungs with air once
they were outside the turret. It was not fresh; it was smoky, but at
least it did not have the smell of dead comrades in it.

‘Christ… what a mess! Young Potter will wet himself when he finds out
that only his daring exploits ashore saved him from dying like this.’

At 16 knots, the ship pounded on through the night. By daybreak on the
26th she was abreast the mouth of the Bristol Channel, heading
northwards into the Irish Sea. Unhindered by submarines, she pressed on
and, 24 hours later, was pitching sickeningly through The Sea of the
Hebrides.

With each downward plunge into the chasm of a trough, the sea seemed to
defy gravity and all the known rules of fluid mechanics. Menacing hills
of frothing water would rise up to tower over her superstructure in
every direction. Seconds later, she would be on top of one of them,
poised momentarily with her screws thrashing uselessly in the air,
before plunging 60 feet into the depths of the next watery valley with a
rattling, creaking shudder. Working below decks with no visual
references, the hardiest of seamen were feeling the effects but trying
not to show it.

During the afternoon of Wednesday October 27, Argyll rounded Cape Wrath and,
later that night, she cleared the Pentland Firth before turning
southwards in the North Sea for the final leg of her journey.

On their last day, they went up Portsdown Hill in Bill’s buggy. It was a
clear, bright day following two days of bad weather and their view from
the top of the hill took Carrie’s breath away – a bird’s eye view of 50
miles of Hampshire and Sussex coastline. At her feet, Portsmouth and the
Solent, Chichester, Southampton, and the Isle of Wight looked like a
patchwork quilt nestling in the silvery sea, on which some child had
left his toy docks, cranes and warships.

Bill explained that the ships she could see crawling imperceptibly along
the Solent waters might be bound for anywhere in the world – across the
Atlantic to America, to India or China, or to Africa – and some would be
bringing home the fruit he had to buy for his shop.

With her face beaming exhilaration, and her golden hair flowing in the
breeze, she stretched out her arms and breathed deeply, inhaling the
scene.

‘One day,’ she said, ‘I’m going to live right here…on top of this hill.
Anyone living here could never be unhappy.’

He laughed and pulled her arm gently.

‘Come on, dreamer, it’s time to go. You’d have to have a fortune to live
up here.’

‘I know…I know. But why shouldn’t I have a fortune one day?’

‘Because life isn’t like that.’

She gave him a pretend frown and a playful dig in the ribs.

‘Life, young man, is exactly what you make it. If you can’t imagine what
it’s like to have a fortune… if you can’t picture it, smell it, taste
it, you’ll never have one. I can…and I will, one day. You’ll see.’

A frown flickered across his brow. For a fleeting moment there was a
glint of conviction and avarice in her eyes that he had not seen before.
But she laughed, and it was suddenly gone. She pretended to gather up
the scene at her feet, to take away with her, and playfully pushed him
down into the wet grass. Like all the other days they had spent
together, this one swept away her troubles and ended with kisses and
laughter.

In London, the concierge of the Savoy Hotel was ready when the black
motorcar swept up the driveway and stopped at the main doors. The
chauffeur opened the door and handed out his passenger. The concierge
stepped forward and politely welcomed the tall, gracious lady of mature
years.

‘Lady Sheffield. We are honoured. Allow me.’ He bowed slightly and swept
his arm towards the doors. They opened as if by magic. He led her
through the foyer and into the restaurant. Waiting impatiently at a
corner table was Margot Asquith, who greeted Lady Sheffield with an
unusual degree of warmth. Then, with a waft of her hand, she dismissed
the fussing waiters settling Lady Sheffield into her seat at the table.
The two women looked and smiled at one another, as if wondering how
their lives had come to this, and where to begin.

A waiter stepped forward to pour water. Margot dismissed him with a
glare and poured it herself. ‘Thank you for coming, Lady Sheffield,’ she
said. ‘We find ourselves in a strange situation.’

‘Indeed. I wish it were not so. When I received your impassioned letter,
I felt compelled to come – in spite of not knowing what I can do.’

‘Lady Sheffield, there must be something you can do to bring this
ridiculous romance between my husband and your daughter Venetia to an
end. I find myself awake at night, worrying about the situation – sick
with anxiety and at a loss to know which way to turn.’

‘You have my sympathy, Mrs Asquith. I do not envy you, but I cannot see
that there is much I can do to relieve your suffering. My daughter is
extremely headstrong. I’ve had strong words with her, of course, but the
relationship will not be finished until she finds a way of ending it
herself.’

Whatever hope Margot had had slipped away, instantly. She straightened
the cutlery and moved her rolled napkin to one side then leant forward.

Thousands of cheering Britons gathered outside Buckingham Palace, as if
intent on making its stately presence the focal point of their patriotic
fervour, while millions of others lined the streets of London.
Approaching midnight, a taut silence settled on the people waiting in
their thousands outside Buckingham Palace. Clutching their notebooks,
reporters moved slowly along the fringe of the crowd, observing the body
language and expressions of the people, witnessing history in the
making. The tension made the nape of many a neck bristle as people stood
amongst the faint smell of coal gas drifting down from a faulty
streetlight and the homely aroma of horse manure under foot. The crowd
held its breath. Apart from the occasional consumptive cough, there was
no other sound. But the anticipated last minute response from the German
Government never came. At midnight, the sonorous tones of Big Ben
reverberated over the rooftops of London, echoing with the sound of
doom. As the bell rang out the hour with sombre, dramatic clangs Europe
seemed to be slipping over the edge into the black abyss of war.

The twelfth strike of the great bell resonated through St James’s Park
and died away. A roar immediately erupted and ran along the Mall then up
Constitution Hill. The uncertainty was over. The worst was known.
Euphoric, bright-eyed young men cheered and threw their hats into the
air. It was now August 5, 1914: the first day of war in Europe, and they
were keen to get on with it. When they’d exhausted their patriotism,
they headed for the West End to celebrate. Other people filed away
quietly.

In an hour, the Mall was empty. Brimming with patriotism and far from
sleep, some wandered aimlessly, gravitating towards the West End. For
many the tiresome monotony of everyday life was about to make way for
something altogether more exciting. Others drifted away with the dark
shadow of impending doom embedded in their glassy stares, deep in
private thought.

There was a fever of confused activity as people dashed this way and
that. They seemed to be unable to cope with their dramatically altered
conditions. The security and stability of years of peace had been
suddenly snatched away, and life as it had been known was at an end.

In drizzling rain, the chauffeured black Rolls-Royce limousine bearing
Herbert Henry Asquith, the Prime Minister of His Majesty’s Liberal
Government, drew slowly away from his official residence at Number 10
Downing Street and nosed into the traffic of Whitehall.

In the rear seat, the Prime Minister relaxed from his formal
straight-backed posture and lifted his black hat from the abundant
silver hair crammed beneath it. As the limousine purred along Victoria
Embankment towards Whitechapel, he glanced at the Thames. The river was
in full flood: wide, grey-brown and flowing rapidly. He turned to the
elegant, slim young woman beside him and smiled lovingly as he reached
secretively for her hand.

Venetia Stanley, the twenty-seven-year-old, unmarried woman with whom he
was intensely in love, self-consciously acceded to his unspoken request
by placing her hand in his. He squeezed it gently.

‘My darling... you’ve no idea how much I’ve missed you, these past
days.’

His eyes sparkled with excitement. She tilted her head forward, burying
her chin in the soft fur collar of her coat. From beneath her long black
eyelashes, her soulful, charcoal eyes glanced coyly at his mature, pink
face. It looked soft and fatherly. She looked away from his pale blue
eyes.

‘Mmm... yes... me too!’ she murmured.

He was oblivious to the lack of conviction in her voice.

‘I’ve so much to tell you,’ he whispered urgently. ‘I had a meeting with
the King yesterday and another with Lloyd George this morning. So much
is going on… but I rather fear there will not be enough time to tell you
everything before we reach that dreadful treadmill you call a hospital.
Had I only known, when I was talking to Lord Knutsford the other day,
what you trainee nurses go through in that place I would have told him
in the plainest English what I think of his wretched system at the
London Hospital.’

‘My poor darling,’ he doted, ‘ you look so much thinner already... and
it has only been one week since you started there. Is it really
necessary for you to put yourself through so much?’

Venetia lifted her head and smiled. ‘It is what I have chosen to do,
Prime. I want to do something useful in the war.’

‘But you will write to me, won’t you... every day?’

‘I will do my best,’ she said, with a frown touching her smooth white
forehead. ‘But the training is so strenuous... it’s often extremely
difficult for me to find the time.’

The familiar disappointed look of a small boy invaded his expression.

‘But I will do my very best... I promise.’

He clasped her hand in both of his and looked adoringly into her
intelligent eyes, admiring her youthful face as if he might never see it
again. The fashionable hat under which her long, dark hair was gathered
reminded him of the new steel helmets worn by French soldiers – but he
was too gentlemanly and too much in love to say so. Instead, he gazed
lovingly at her, as he always did – to her complete embarrassment. She
was attractive, rather than beautiful. A nose that was not pert enough,
and eyebrows that were too darkly prominent, kept her short of
outstanding beauty. But he loved her aquiline features and virginal,
tomboyish manner. To him, the real beauty of Venetia – which he adored –
was her sharply intelligent mind, her chummy disposition, and an
intellect as sharp and masculine as his own.

Winston Churchill and Admiral Jacky Fisher were admitted together to the
Prime Minister’s room. They were barely speaking to one another, and
what little cordiality they could muster was reserved solely for
secretaries and staff – not extendable to each other.

They were ushered into Asquith’s conference room, where the War Council
– of which they were key members – was to meet within the hour. They
greeted him as he breezed into the room, but otherwise remained silent
and sullen, standing awkwardly with their backs half towards each other.
He smiled at them in turn and noted how much they resembled a pair of
bookends: carved wooden bulldogs. Churchill’s face looked like a
thundercloud. Fisher’s remained bland, apart from the characteristic
droop of his mouth and his oriental manner of peering down his nose
through half-closed eyelids. The wintry morning light creeping through
the window drapes heightened the jaundiced tone of the “Old Malay’s”
complexion, lending him the image of a Siamese King. The tension between
them was tangible.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ opened Asquith, already well aware of why they were
there.

‘How may I help?’

They all sat. Churchill was anxious to speak first.

‘Prime Minister. The First Sea Lord and I seem unable to agree a
position on the Dardanelles. In fact,’ he mumbled cynically to one side,
‘we have difficulty in reaching an agreement about anything.’

Fisher shifted uneasily in his chair and cleared his throat, but
Churchill went on with a statement that sorely exercised his defective
pronunciation of the letter ‘S’.

‘As you know, a telegram arrived on January 2nd from the British
Ambassador in St. Petersburg. It stressed, as a matter of urgency, the
need for some form of direct action to be taken against the Turks, as
aah... a measure to counter their advance against the Russians in the
Caucasian provinces.’

‘I am aware of this,’ said Asquith, calmly.

‘The Secretary of State for War,’ Churchill continued, “sshhssing” his
way through the title, ‘wrote to me immediately. Lord Kitchener asked
if… aah… naval action was possible in the area, and if an operation by
ships alone was feasible.’

He referred to his papers.

‘The First Sea Lord here has made it known that he is opposed to an
assault by ships alone, and proposes that a strong military force should
be landed to assist with the assault. I am given to believe by Lord
Kitchener that he is very short of troops at present, and now insists
that the only uncommitted division, the 29th – the very one he promised
for the Dardanelles – should be left here in England, as … ah …
reinforcements for France. I have indicated to the First Sea Lord that I
would not begrudge 100,000 men of the Naval Division for the operation,
but I... ah, also added that I consider Germany to be the real foe.’

He glanced up at Asquith.

‘In short, my position is that whilst I am uncomfortable that the Army
is not available to assist with an attack on Turkey, I am prepared to
consider an assault by ships alone…in the light of the shortage of
military divisions. The First Sea Lord, however, is not.’

He had his men dig the last charges under some rock then trail the wires
down the cliff. He kept four men at the top with him to maintain fire on
the approaching Turks, and sent the rest of his party down to the beach.

Wasting no time, they launched themselves off the top in a desperate bid
to reach the bottom. With no control over their reckless descent, they
went sliding and scrabbling to the bottom in an avalanche of dust and
loose rocks. Potter fell awkwardly as he landed on the beach, shattering
an ankle. He writhed in agony, unable to get up again.

One of the four Marine rearguards left the top early. He came tumbling
and slithering down the face of the cliff in a shower of stones and
earth to land in a distorted heap at the bottom, followed by his rifle.
His steel helmet came down a moment later and rolled to a standstill
beside his body. He was dead. A bullet had entered his skull through his
left eye and left with most his brain through a gory hole in the back of
his head. George winced as the body went still, close to where he was
crouching, and felt his stomach turn.

The Marine with the detonator box hurriedly connected up the fuse wires
and waited – his eyes fixed anxiously on the cliff top. To the Turks,
who were some way back from edge of the cliff, the cutters were out of
sight, and they thought they had the British trapped.

Suddenly, rocks and earth cascaded down the cliff in a cloud of dust
containing the three remaining men and Cartwright. As soon as they
reached the bottom and scrambled to their feet, they all ran across the
beach to the waiting boats, leaving the one man to fire the charge.
Curly picked Potter up bodily, and ran with him over his shoulder, in a
fireman’s lift.

The pinnace took the strain on the cutter’s towline, ready to pull away
as soon as the last man was safe.

The last Marine cranked the handle of the detonator generator then ran
for his life across the beach. There was a mighty explosion and a
section of the cliff top erupted into the air and tumbled down behind
him. He and Curly were knocked off their feet by the avalanche of dust
and rubble that billowed out from the foot of the cliff.

In the boats the men watched apprehensively. Slowly, the Marine and
Curly got to their feet. The explosion startled the Turks and it
interrupted their fire, giving the two men the chance to escape. They
staggered towards the cutter, carrying Potter between them, as the
others cheered them on. Curly responded with a grin – then fell headlong
into the sand as shots cracked from the cliff top.

Troops from all parts of the French Republic, New Zealand, Australia and
India had been brought to Alexandria to join forces with the British
regulars assembled under General Sir Ian Hamilton for the assault on
Gallipoli.

The busy Egyptian port was bustling with activity and clogged with the
impedimenta of an army on the move. In the dry warm air, there was a
pervading cacophony of ropes straining in squeaky pulleys, the groaning
and clanking of cranes, the chuffing of trains, and the bellowed orders
of NCOs and officers in charge.

Transport ships lined the docks, with cranes and hoists working
feverishly to load the equipment and stores being piled up on the
docksides. The hundreds of horses and braying mules, tethered in long,
snaking lines and waiting patiently to be embarked, added their own
smells to the dusty, hazy air hanging over the docks.

In tented camps outside the city, thousands of troops were living and
training in the desert sand, preparing for the forthcoming expedition.
Their spirits were high and a strong camaraderie was developing between
men drawn from vastly different parts of the world. For many of them, it
was their first encounter with foreigners and colonials. New Zealanders
and Australians trained with Gurkhas and Indian, French and British
troops – in a spirit of co-operation not seen before.

In the command tent of the combined forces, Hamilton, a wiry,
brittle-looking man in his late sixties, stood with his arms akimbo
among members of his staff, surveying a makeshift map of the Gallipoli
Peninsula. As he leaned forward to pore over it, his delicate hands
darted furtively across the document like the paws of a dormouse. With a
satisfied expression, he stood erect and rounded off his conversation
with his French counterpart, General d’Amade. Their battle-plans for the
landings were now complete, and the detailed arrangements for shipping
the combined forces to Gallipoli were well in hand. Donning his uniform
topi, which seemed at least one size too big for him, he positioned its
chinstrap with military precision between his lower lip and the point of
his chin, bristled up his neat, white moustache and pulled his tunic
jacket straight under his Sam Brown belt. General d’Amade straightened
his pillbox cap and followed Hamilton out of the command tent, into the
sun and sand.

The entente cordiale between Britain and France was never more evident
than between these military gentlemen. Their mutual respect for each
other positively shone through their body language. With everything in
place, it was time for Hamilton and his General Staff to leave for the
island of Lemnos, fifty miles south west of the Dardanelles, confident
that their forces would follow them to the island in good order. They
were off to finalise plans with Vice Admiral de Robeck for throwing this
most eclectic of armies ashore at Gallipoli.

As they left the beachhead, yet more troops and equipment were being
landed; more heavy guns; additional mules; horses; ammunition and
supplies, and the invasion of Gallipoli seemed firmly under way on “V”
beach. At the other four landing sites there was a very different story.
On some, troops had been landed with very little initial resistance,
only to be engaged in fierce fighting later. On others, men were mown
down as if with a scythe as they came ashore and it was only the courage
of the following waves of troops that permitted footholds to be gained.
On other beaches, errors of navigation had placed men on impregnable
beaches where they died uselessly and pitifully, in thousands.

By now, all of the invasion beaches had become congested with the
detritus of war as if some enormous vessel had been shipwrecked on the
coast. Stranded boats; rafts; stores; tents; troops and bodies were
abandoned everywhere; and in the sea upturned topis were floating like
jellyfish among the bodies and debris. Farther inland, battles, many
hand-to-hand, raged day and night as every inch of land was determinedly
fought over: sometimes taken, lost, and re-taken in a single hour. The
resistance of the Turks was fierce and unrelenting, and their troops –
supported and guided by German officers and regulars – always retained
the supreme advantage of elevated, well-prepared positions.

In the steel barque Hoche further
along the cost, the wheelhouse door suddenly crashed open, startling the
captain and his wife. With rain and seawater pouring from his oilskins,
a crewman hurtled in shouting hysterically that there were cracks in the
forward section of the hold. The constant snatching of the anchor chain
was tearing the ship apart, he shrieked; and the sea was pouring in.

Before the captain could react, another thirty-foot wave rolled over the
ship with a deafening roar, shattering the wheelhouse windows with its
weight. The anchor, embedded into rocks on the seabed, held fast as the
ship strained against it. Under the enormous tensile forces in the
anchor chain, the ship’s bow section ripped away from her hull with an
agonised screech of tearing tortured metal. Still attached to the seabed
by the anchor chain, the bow section fell straight to the bottom. In the
next instant, the sea engulfed the barque and dragged it to the seabed
with everybody on board still inside.

After a few minutes, a kindly looking man with a fixed, yellowy smile
came in proffering a limp, bony hand. She took it and thought how much
he resembled her old schoolmaster – a slight stoop, hooked nose, gold
rimmed spectacles, and an abundance of gold watch chain dangling from
his waistcoat pockets. He went behind his desk.

‘Springer,’ he said, as an afterthought – rather obviously, Carrie
thought.

‘You must be…’ he bent forward, looking down his nose at the documents
on his desk. ‘Miss Carrie Palmer… is that correct?’

His knees cracked as he sat down behind the desk.

‘And did you bring along your birth certificate today – and that of the
child?’

‘Yes, I did.’ Carrie drew them from her handbag and offered them to him
with a trembling hand. He studied them in silence then handed them back
with a smile.

‘Thank you. Now, would you mind telling me if you have ever been in
service, Miss Palmer?’

Carrie’s fear suddenly turned into a flush of anger. She resented being
interrogated without explanation, and she imagined how Marje would
handle the situation.

‘Mister Springer. I have no idea why I am here or, frankly, what
business it is of yours if I have been in service.’

It worked. Springer was visibly alarmed that he may have overstepped the
mark and annoyed her. He smiled profusely and held up his claw-like
hands in a gesture of surrender.

‘I’m so sorry, Miss Palmer. Rest assured that there are valid reasons
for my asking, and it could be to your advantage to answer my questions.
The reasons will become apparent soon. All in good time, Miss Palmer,
all in good time.’

She noticed his tendency to give a slight sniff at the end of every
other sentence. Still slightly ruffled, she decided to go along with his
game of mystery – after all, she was otherwise not going to find out
what this was all about. She answered his questions and told him about
Farleigh Manor. He asked the names of the Squire and his son, and she
confirmed them.

Visibly reassured by her answers, Springer dropped his interrogatory
manner for one of smiling subservience.

‘I am sorry, Miss Palmer, but it was necessary for me to establish,
beyond doubt, that we have the correct Miss Palmer before disclosing our
instructions. You do understand, of course?’

Carrie did not, but she nodded. He pulled a crisp, sealed envelope from
the document on his desk and, with a sober smile, handed it to her then
stood up to leave the room.

‘I shall return in a few minutes. In the meantime, please be good enough
to read this. It will, no doubt, explain why I have asked you to come
here today.’

Frowning, she accepted the envelope and watched it tremble in her hand.
Her heart beat faster as she hastened to see what was in it. It was
addressed to her by name in a neat handwriting that she did not
recognise and was marked “Strictly Private & Confidential”. Mystified,
she tore it open and looked quickly to the end of the letter.